


April, 1990

by Rattlehead_Rose



Series: Snapshots of a Life Well Wasted [3]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Canon Trans Character, Drug Abuse, Gen, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Rape/Non-con, im just covering my bases on this one it's pretty intense, needless to say if you're sensitive to non-con i'd skip this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 18:06:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14360790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rattlehead_Rose/pseuds/Rattlehead_Rose
Summary: Easter Fucking Sucks.





	April, 1990

**Author's Note:**

> Ages are weird.
> 
> Pickles- born 1973 (just turned 17)  
> Seth- born 1967 (22)
> 
> Seriously, if you're at all squicked/triggered by rape/non-con, i'd skip this one, or at least be careful. Practice self-care, dearies.  
> (A Note: PLEASE let me know if i should add any more tags to this! I really want to be clear about this one.)
> 
> Everything ends up relatively ok in the end, or at least as much as it could be. He'll get out of here before too long.
> 
> Poor, Poor Pickles.

[April, 1990]

In Pickles’ humble opinion, Easter was the stupidest fucking holiday of the year. There were no cool parties, there was no expectation of booze (St. Patties’ took care of that), it was just a day for little kids to run around in the mud looking for plastic eggs full of shitty candy and going to church. They weren’t even religious! Easter and Christmas Eve were the only two days of the year his parents even thought about the stuffy little chapel on main street, which automatically made them Pickles’ least favorite days, period. It certainly didn’t help that Easter fell five days after his birthday, meaning that his parents put more effort into celebrating the day a 2000-year-old zombie rose from the grave than they did celebrating one of their two children. Not that he expected anything different-- his dad would rather him not be alive at all, seemingly punishing him simply for existing.

Not that Calvert was his real dad anyway.

Pickles sat outside the back door of the chapel, examining the cigarette butts littering the parking lot as he worked on another to add to the pile. He shivered against the cold, cursing his parents for forcing him to leave his leather jacket home-- “not appropriate for church,” pff. As if they cared about church. They cared about their image, however, and showing up for major religious holidays was an expectation in a town like Tomahawk. Pickles never fit very well into that mold.

Maybe that’s why Calvert hated him so much. Pickles’ antics turned him from ‘Calvert, the respectable office drone’ into ‘Calvert, the one with the maniac daughter.’ Fuck him anyway. Pickles dropped his cigarette to the ground, grinding it into the asphalt with the heel of his chuck taylors.

He pulled open the back door and slipped back inside, just in time for the service to let out and the back room of the church to flood with snotty children and high schoolers, desperate to escape their parents for even a few minutes. Pickles snagged a donut off one of the folding tables, set out to appease the juvenile masses after skipping breakfast to come to church. A few kids his age eyed him sideways, muttering among themselves around donuts and juice. Pickles ignored them in favor of dodging little kids and picking his way toward the door.

He wandered back out into the main room, more of a clubhouse than a proper church. The walls were washed white, the only real source of color being the tacky blue carpet. Molly appeared seemingly from nowhere and caught him by the shoulder. “And where the hell have you been young lady?” Pickles winced as her manicured nails dug into his skin, and he tried to duck out of her grip but to no avail. “I went to the bathroom, jeez! Let go of me!”

“You disappear for the whole service, make me look like an idiot. You’re going to your room as soon as we get home. You’re grounded.”

“What!? Ya can’t ground me from the party, Ma!” Pickles whinged. He didn’t even want to go to the stupid party, but at least it was something to do. Spending the evening in his room meant picking away on Seth’s guitar, pointless without an amp. “Too late. Grounded.” Molly insisted, finally loosing her grip on his shoulder. Pickles rubbed at the spot, sure that he’d find indents from her nails. He looked around the chapel, observing the way his mother had turned so quickly to talk to a group of other women, as if she hadn’t grabbed him at all. He could see Calvert a little ways off, talking with the pastor and some other dads. Seth was off in the corner with the shitheads he called friends, eyeing up every girl their age and younger that passed by. Gross.

His mother’s hand was on his neck again before long, and she steered him toward the front door of the church, beckoning Seth and Calvert to follow. They had work to do, after all.

The ride home was largely silent, mostly filled with the squeaking of the brakes.

Molly directed him up the stairs as soon as they were inside with a dismissive “Go.” Pickles stomped up the steps, feeling Seth’s bemused glare burning holes in the back of his neck. He retreated into his room, feeling suppressed somehow now that he lacked a door to slam.

As he stared, fuming, at the open doorway, the memory of his father taking it off the hinges bubbled to the front of his mind, the way he grumbled about it the whole time, as if it wasn’t his choice to remove Pickles’ last and only semblance of privacy. The door itself had been abandoned to the basement with his drumkit, leaving him with a status of ‘grounded’ without a door to cement his prisoner status. He sank onto his bed, pulling off his shoes, feeling constantly as if he were being watched.

The front door opened again, and he heard what sounded like his aunt and a chorus of her friends and their children bustling into the living room. A distinctly sick feeling planted itself in his stomach and he fell back onto his mattress, groping blindly for his guitar. Technically it was Seth’s, but between being out of town on ‘business’ and his general disinterest in actually playing music, his brother never got much use out of it. Pickles, on the other hand, was happy to step in. He plucked the strings experimentally, picking out a pattern before reaching for his walkman. Hanoi Rocks, Tragedy. It was the one time he almost got caught stealing from a record store, but goddamn if he didn’t really want that tape.

The next few hours passed without incident, the only things to bother him being younger kids running up and down the hallway and a headache blooming from the base of his skull. He was almost painfully sober, and he was beginning to feel it. It sounded like the party had been concentrated downstairs by food, so he sat up stiffly.

Pickles slipped down the hallway, listening carefully to the sounds of activity from downstairs, of parents talking in the kitchen and kids crowded around their TV set. The carpeted hallway was good at disguising his footfalls, and he made it through his parents’ room and into the master bath without much issue. He opened Molly’s side of the medicine cabinet, eyes scanning over the assorted creams and gels until they landed on the white bottle on the bottom shelf.

He was never quite sure why his mother took sleeping pills-- what part of her proper suburban life could possibly be keeping her up at night-- but he knew they were powerful shit. She normally only took two, three would knock her out for a solid twelve hours. Pickles snatched the bottle and tapped four or five tabs out into his palm, pocketing them before returning the bottle to the cabinet in just the way he’d found it.

He stole back to his room, as casually as possible, just in case. He’d had to get smart since the door removal and kept a bottle or two stashed in the guitar case, which sat under his bed where his shoebox had been before. He snuck one out, a mostly-empty bottle of gin he’d swiped from the liquor cabinet, and knocked back a couple tabs with a mouthful of it. He made sure to return the bottle to the case before collapsing onto his bed to pass out.

Hours passed in what felt like seconds. Pickles came to once again to find darkness had overtaken his bedroom, the streetlight outside casting odd shadows across the ceiling. His limbs felt like lead, and any movement took a massive amount of effort. It was a few minutes before his senses returned enough that he could hear anything happening in the house-- the party was still going, somehow, the living room seemingly the epicenter.

Comfortably Numb had always been one of his favorites.

Movement wasn’t painful, just hard. Not worth the effort, mostly. It was far more pleasant to just lay there and let the drug work. If only he could fall asleep again-- no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes shut for more than a few moments.

Hushed talking from the hallway reached his ears, and, with an enormous amount of effort, he lifted his head to see a couple of Seth’s friends-- the ones from church, he couldn’t remember their names-- huddled outside his door. They cast sidelong glances at him every so often, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. His heart rate picked up a little, but he let his head drop, it started to hurt to look at them. They wouldn’t, right? Not Seth’s sister. Not in the fucking house, at least. Jesus.

His train of thought was interrupted by both of them stepping across the threshold into his room. Pickles let out a low whine, squirming as though his affected state would allow him to put up much of a fight. Well, it wasn’t like he was going to take it lying down. Metaphorically, anyway. Within a moment a set of strong hands closed around his wrists to keep him very much lying down.

They were remarkably coordinated for a couple of fucking bumpkins. One sat above him to control his hands, to keep him from pawing at them numbly, while the other pulled at his shirt. Pickles grunted, unable to even form proper words. He lifted a leg, shoving his socked foot into the second one’s face. They laughed at him, the one he’d kicked shrugging his foot off easily as he continued to grope him.

Pickles felt hot, he felt ill. He squirmed for a while, fueled by the laughter of his assailants, whining as loud as he could before a hand clamped over his mouth. Around the time his pants were unbuttoned, he fell still, exhausted by the effort. He shut his eyes, praying to whoever the fuck was listening that he could fall asleep, or pass out, or even die, he didn’t care-- literally anything to save him from this. His chest hurt, he could barely breathe.

“Dude, you’re not actually gonna fuck her, are ya?” The one over his head asked. The other scoffed. “Nah. I wanna feel her, though. I hear dyke pussy’s tighter than normal.”

Two fat fingers mashed their way between his thighs and Pickles could have vomited. He almost wanted to, anything to get these fucks to stop touching him. He felt tears escape his eyes despite his best efforts.

“Oh shit, dude. I think Seth’s lookin’ for us.”

“Fuck. Alright, c’mon. It’s boring if she’s just gonna lay there.”

The hands removed themselves from him, and Pickles gasped for breath, as he lay there trembling. He heard them leave, walk down the stairs and talk loudly to Seth. ‘God,’ He thought with a particularly violent shudder, swallowing bile that shot its way up his throat. ‘They’ll probably tell him.’

And what would become of him then? If the whole town found out that he’d laid there and let them fingerfuck him. He was dead where he stood. Slut.

He rolled out of bed, pulling up his pants against a hot wash of shame, and staggered-slash-crawled to the bathroom to throw up, not that there was much in his stomach besides pills and booze. Years later, he’d recognize that to be a theme, but as for right now he was too busy sobbing and hiccuping into the toilet in a darkened bathroom. No reason to draw attention to himself by turning on a light.

He stumbled back into his bedroom, which reeked of smoke and beer, stained into the air, a sickening reminder. Pickles sank onto his bed, feeling oddly hollow. He was lucky they didn’t fuck him. He was lucky they got bored, that they found a reason to leave him alone. It could have been so much worse, why was he complaining? He was struck with an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and disgust, mostly with himself, but still managed to worm his hand into his pocket and produce the other two pills he’d stolen. He stared at them, little white tabs that somehow felt heavy in his palm.

People killed themselves with these, right? Rockstars. Hendrix and Elvis. Not that he was a rockstar, not yet at least. But still, it probably didn’t take much, did it. He turned the tabs over a few times before reaching for the bottle of gin again. Even if he didn’t die, anything to fall asleep again. Maybe he’d convince himself it was a dream. Maybe when he woke up, his back and his chest and his crotch wouldn’t hurt so much, the deep ache like he’d just run five miles would be gone. He’d move on and forget about it and go to LA after graduation like he planned.

Maybe. It was worth a shot.

He swallowed the pills with another swig of gin, wincing at the way they caught in this throat. He tossed the bottle under his bed carelessly, rolling over and curling into a ball on top of his blanket. He clung tightly to his pillow, willing away the deep ache in his body until the drug pulled him under again.


End file.
